Into the Kollassaio.
There was nothing quite like it. Da roar of the crowds, da chanting, da fists, da stomping. It was glorious. And nufin’ could ever stop him while he was in there. It was da best fun he’d eva had. Eva.
And he didn’t never want it to end. Every time the bell rung around Scrappa Spill he was da first to da gates. And he would have been da first, even if he wasn’t waiting right outside them. And he had the scars to show for it. And he had the laurels as well. Around his beefy arms, dozens of laurels were tied around Borgut Facebeater. People from all around would come to da big gates and get fancy pictures drawn by the nancy-pants elves that hung about. Young squishy things dragging petrified parents, begging and pleading like tiny, whiney, newborn pups. But dat was the life of a famous one like himself. And he loved it. He’d pick em up and fling em around with his smallest finga. And da not-tiny ones would scream. And he would laugh. Da only thing better than da Kollassaio was being da big one in the Kollassaio. Da famous one.